


Telephone

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Phone Sex, awkward teens wanting to frick through the phone, that's about it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:22:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maka’s breath catches. He can literally <b>hear</b> her slowly-forming, coy smile crawl up her lips—<i>he’s in.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Telephone

It’s weird, the first few times Soul is sent on his own missions, without Maka, without anyone.

Not that they’re difficult, obviously—they’re more like practice trials for him, most being situations he’s already dealt with under Maka’s hands, things he knows how to handle without getting sliced up or mangled or worse.

Nonetheless, he’s still sent on them, and when he is, he always makes sure his phone is charged (something that’s usually a struggle of a task) and that his iPod is set to Death City time, not his destination, which his phone will sync to automatically, anyways. This way he can tell what time it is at home, and not provide Maka with a phone call at ungodly hours of the night, something that happened with a trip to England and was not dared repeated again.

This time, he happens to be in Germany, and if he thought Italy was cool, Germany is _much_ more his style. The language is cool (he speaks a good bit from lessons as a small child to help with his music career that would not be) and the cities, he thinks they’re incredible, with “the underground” and even mainstream styles and people catching his eye; he’s a sucker for foreign.

The hotel is nice, and he thanks the company that got him into this one—they book him a nice suite, he’s pretty sure they’re trying to secretly entice him to have sex with his meister, with some of the little stunts they pull (but they’re only been dating several months and sex is kind of a huge deal, so no) but overall, he can stand it if it means comfy beds and free room service after missions that leave even the muscles in his _eyeballs_ sore.

Soul flops down on the puffy-looking bed, moans because of its softness compared to his aches and soreness—these might be “practice” missions for him but they take a _lot_ of effort, plus, he’s not used to fighting alone. However, this bed is comfy and soaks up nearly all negativity he can spew, so there’s no longer an issue of complaining here.

As he’s kicking off his shoes and undoing his belt (all without moving from how he flopped down before), his phone rings in his pocket and nearly scares him to death. A quick look at the clock on the bedside table reveals that it’s 9:34 in the evening here, and since Soul’s too lazy to do the math in his head, it’s probably a decent time for Maka to be ringing him like she normally does when he’s away.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear—Maka’s name flashes on his screen, and he swipes the lock to answer.

“Hey,” he grunts, mostly because he’s propping himself up on his elbows, but he hears Maka fluster at the sound.

“I can call later—“

“Nah, s’fine. What’s up?”

He hears her shift, it sounds like she’s still in bed, with all the shuffling he hears from her end. It makes him smile to picture her cuddled up in the blankets with the phone next to her head, little smile curling pretty pink lips and all.

“Miss you.”

She’s so goddamn cute; he’s going to have cavities.

“Is _that_ all you called for?”

“Shh, don’t ruin it, smartass.”

He doesn’t. Instead, Soul gets a little more comfortable in bed himself, helping his belt slither out through the loops of his slacks and drops it to the floor with a dull _clunk_. Maka makes a giggle.

“What are you doing?”

“Stripping,” he grunts, because it’s true, and he’s absolutely _done_ with his stupid slacks and everything and he just wants to burrow under the clean sheets and wish she were there—she’d appreciate the nudity, with a stammer and a violently-red blush, of course.

“For me?” She teases, and the scythe grins, looking at the dimly glowing phone cuddled in the duvet he’s laying on.

“Want it to be?”

Maka’s breath catches. He can literally **hear** her slowly-forming, coy smile crawl up her lips— _he’s in_.

“I wish it was,” she sighs, and he hears her shift again; this time, she makes a little mewl of a noise, and he licks his suddenly-dry lips at the tantalizing thought.

“What are you doing?”

She sighs, another shift. “My hand’s not,” little huff, “as good as yours.”

He’s literally going to die, good **god**. He’s on the other side of the freakin’ world and there she is at home, hand stuffed in her pj’s with him getting to listen in on her touching herself, a luxury he’s never had in-person—he wonders what gives her the courage to do this for a moment, before going back to biting his lip at her lascivious sounds and noticing that his own hips are grinding into the bed pretty enthusiastically.

“What are you doing?” He repeats, but it’s lower, more feral this time. “What are you doing to yourself?”

She hums, but it ends on a breathy note, a shaky sigh coming from her end. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, but when she does, it’s an awkward little laugh that sounds an awful lot like the ones she gives when her gropes her ass a little too roughly or when she accidently knocks him in the head with her knobby knee—a sexual giggle, to say the very least.

“Can’t you just …imagine it?” She whispers (shyly), but he hears the bed give a little groan and Maka make a high-pitched little whine and although it leaves little to the imagination, hearing her _say_ it would probably be a million times hotter.

“Tell me,” he grunts, because his hand is wrapping around his dick and he is in dire need of descriptive details of her in her current state, because there’s nothing in the entire world he’d rather see than her flushed face with parted lips, panting and whimpering—

“ _Oooh_ —I just, _mmgh_ , want your hands—no, your **mouth** —oh, god, _Soul_ —!”

He likes the fact he can hear the rustling on her end, it leaves little imagination to the equation that way, and that’s hot. Soul almost gathers the wit to ask her how she’s touching herself, be it pumping her fingers or rubbing his favorite little button between her legs, but she takes the upper hand.

“Are you—are you touching yourself? To me?” He can hear the shyness in her voice, because even when he’s looking her in the face as he’s got his dick inside her, she can find the will to be embarrassed yet still entice him in ways he doesn’t particularly understand himself.

“I, _uhn_ , I couldn’t help it,” he grunts through a particularly-long stroke that makes him ache for release; he could get it over with quickly, like he does when it usually comes (aha) down to business such as this, matters he has to take care of himself—but because Maka’s into, too, he can’t bear to take a moment away from her. If he can help it.

“Is it hard?” She murmurs. “Would you let me do it for you?”

“Oh _god_.”

“Let me stroke it for you? Put it in my mouth?”

“ _Maka_.”

“I’d take it all the way in—oh god—let it drip off my chin I—“

It doesn’t even matter that she’s awful at talking, especially talking dirty, because it’s enough for him to buck like a stallion, moaning her name like a desperate siren song; he wishes she was here to kiss him and whisper the filthy things she’s saying right to his face, right up against his burning skin—he’s going to die just thinking about her, and it’s going to be a fucking **_fantastic_** way to go.

She’s groaning into the phone now, right up against his ear, puffing out little breaths as she tells him how good it is, how much she needs him back home, how she’s going to go insane if this isn’t him taking care of her by this time tomorrow. He catches a sound, the slightest skin-on-wet-skin that makes him throw his head to the side, moan out her name as he holds his hips up into his hand and spills over, sees stars and nearly believes he goes blind with how hard he comes.

And, like some kind of luxury or treat that he doesn’t normally seem to pay the best attention to, Maka’s working herself hard, too—he can hear the small cries of the mattress and her voice moving around on the other end; she must be _aching_ , by the pitch of her moans.

“I’ll do whatever you want, when I get back,” he mumbles, grinning when he hears her too concentrated to respond. “Let you yank my hair, tell me where to kiss—mmh, _god_ , I can’t wait to taste you again, lick all nice and slow—“

His name has now become a chorus on the other end, a swan song that grows more breathy and high-pitched as the seconds tick on, until there’s just a shout of “ _mmnh, **Soul**!_ ” and the sound of Maka’s heavy pants and content little moans as she settles back down, a sound he can hear and one that makes him smile at how perfectly he can imagine her burying her face into the sheets and sprawling out on the bed comfortably.

He tells her to hold on so he can wash up for bed, but she clucks her tongue at him and tells him to take his phone with him—she makes sure to whine loudly when he takes her into the bathroom and _deliberately_ takes a piss, just to scorn her choice in wanting to stay on the line with him.

However, it’s a little like being home as he brushes his teeth and she talks to him, tells him things about her day and mumbles shyly about how much she’s missed him, even Blair gets lonely when she doesn’t have someone to nuzzle against when she comes leaping through the window in the kitchen in the late hours of the night, so he better be home soon. He snorts s he shuffles back to bed, crawling under the covers after putting on a new pair of boxers and settles the phone next to his face, wishing it were her whole being instead of a disembodied voice next to him.

Her words start getting slurred and spaced out, and he asks with a little smile, “Why don’t you just go to bed?”

“I wanna talk to you more; I miss you.”

He rolls his eyes, tugs the blankets up and sighs at how goddamn comfortable this bed is. Imagines her doing the same, and sighs again.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, promise.”

Pause. “You’re lucky you can talk me into getting back to bed. Ass.”

He laughs, and she laughs, too, and there’s another heavy silence before anything is said again.

“Love you.”

She sounds so timid saying it, he can imagine her hiding her nose in the blankets and peeking at him with doe-like eyes—it make him want to groan, she’s so fucking cute.

“Love you, too. Quit talking and just go to bed already, it’s a Sunday, you don’t even _need_ to be up yet!”

She hums, and blows him a little kiss through the receiver. “Sleep tight, Soul.”

He hangs up, and feels disgustingly happy as he nuzzles his cheek against foreign pillows (which he takes one of to cuddle himself around like he normally does with Maka when they go to bed) and quickly falls asleep.


End file.
